New Life Breathed Into Dead Air
by dolphinsramazing
Summary: A Tiva one-shot born from the episode "Dead Air", where Ziva saves Tony from the bomb. Told in both Tony and Ziva's POV.


**I know this is more than a little late, but I'm a busy bee and it escalated from a short little thing into probably the longest one-shot I've ever written. My goal was to get it posted before the premiere of "Cracked", where it says "Tony has a fling." ****. I figured my muse would abandon me after that episode. Well, anyhows, I hope you enjoy, and please review! I've never written a solely Tiva piece first, and I'd like to know if they were OOC or if there was some other flagrant error.**

Ziva David closed her eyes gently, long dark lashes brushing against the olive skin of her cheek. Immediately, a vivid and detailed scene flooded her consciousness, overtaking her senses. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the spiral of smoke emitting from the blazing inferno that was the bomb. In focus were the piercing hazel eyes of her partner, one (Very) Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo. Those sparkling orbs betrayed so much of his emotions if you took the time to look. She felt the warmth of his hot breath upon her lips as he inhaled and exhaled, and a fierce crimson blush crept up her cheeks.

She was perched precariously atop his sculpted body, and she reveled in the feeling of such close human contact far more than she should. Their proximity sent an electric shock through her body, causing her to convulse slightly. Her black braid fell to the side as she cocked her head coquettishly, the tips of her hair brushing against his suit-encased shoulder. A zephyr of a breeze wafted past, and she detected the scent of expensive cologne and throat lozenges. The epitome of Tony.

"I miss the old Ziva," He whispered, the decibel dually motivated by necessity and some semblance of intimacy. In that moment, the meaning of his words didn't quite resonate. Her mind was too occupied with other thoughts to fathom a guess at their meaning. Instead, she retorted snappily, "I can tell." Until she figured out what he really meant, sleep continued to expertly evade her, and she snuggled up on her new settee in an afghan, her mind spinning. In a flash of insight, she saw the true significance of his statement, and she could feel the tightness in her chest the realization evoked.

The person she was when she walked into the bullpen five years ago, wild black curls and wild eyes and wild temper, donning cargo pants, a bandanna, and an endless amount of weapons, was an entirely distinct being from Ziva now. She had settled down, becoming an investigator as opposed to a killer, putting her knowledge to good use. She dressed more fashionably now, preferring tight jeans and colorful tops, and she often adorned herself with makeup. Those were just her physical attributes. She, her inner core being, had made a transformation, and a dynamic one at that. How could he not appreciate the change she had made, especially since she had made it for him?

The only thing she had believed in four years ago was death, in its inevitability and most truly its finality. Death was a constant and consequently something she could control. Now she believed in so many other things, things that had made her life complete, as cliché as that sounded. She believed in hope and dreams and innocence and purity and love and the good in people. She had held on to the hope that when she was rescued from Somalia, things would get better. Her hope had panned out, and now she possessed a fervent hope for even the little things. She believed that attaining the American dream was possible, and she wanted it more than anything. She aspired to have the white picket fence, the freshly mowed lawn, the stereotypical colonial house, and 2-4 kids, kids that wouldn't have to see the horrors she had as a child, children that she could try and protect from the evils of the world.

What she never thought she'd believe in was love. It had been drummed into her from a young age that love and attachments of any kind would be your ultimate downfall, and consequently to keep everyone at arm's length. But somehow, against her will and before she knew it, he had weaseled his way into her life, most of the time too close for comfort, but she liked it, a lot more than she should have. She liked everything about him.

Tony DiNozzo. She loved the way the syllables rolled off her tongue, strangely accented though they were escaping from her lips. And that was the simplest thing she could say about him. Her feelings were him were such an entangled web of complexity that she had long ago abandoned trying to fathom it. Maybe it was because he himself was an enigma enveloped in an oxymoron, things that her rational brain wasn't accustomed to processing. He maintained the façade of the practical joker, the comic relief, but he had, little by little, begun to reveal his true self. Mostly over that summer, when some of the walls he, and in the interest of full disclosure, she, had constructed, began to come down.

That summer. The summer out of time was the way she usually thought of it. It ostensibly held that time didn't pass, that the clock went tick-tock tick-tock, but the minutes just felt like placeholders for an intangible amount of time, one that could feel like a century or an instant. All those days ran into each other: . Those three months were a blur of idiotic suspects vehemently declaring their innocence, Ducky's long-winded stories, Jimmy's ill-timed quips, Gibbs's absence, which led to a bereft Abby, the latter which caused a thoroughly confused McGee, and them. They were more them then they had ever been.

Maybe they defined the abstract concept of "them" that summer. Maybe they made it that there was a them, that there was even a tangible possibility of them. Maybe they were no longer Tony and Ziva, partners extraordinaire, but Tonyziva, a single entity defining two distinct people. They worked seamlessly, mirroring each other's movements in the field and finishing each other's sentences in the squad room. But there was also that other aspect- probing gazes too long meeting, casual touches too long lingering. That summer was the closest they ever came to being _something_, being able to have a definition. But neither of them ever mustered up the courage to take that first step.

She knew how many times it had been on the tip of her tongue, pushing against her pursed lips, the truth aching to set her free. How could three so simple words speak such volumes? If she decided to stop lying to herself, she knew that the reason for her silence was fear. Fear that she would be rejected, that his feelings for her weren't as strong as hers for him. Fear that she would inevitably end up hurt, broken worse than she already was. Fear that the closer they became, the harder she would fall.

And so she had remained bound, never telling Tony how she really felt, because the circumstances were never _right_ enough. Sometimes they were at a crime scene, and he snuck a small smile at her. Sometimes they were in the squad room with McGee behind them. Sometimes they were watching a movie, but then something dark and brooding shot through his eyes, and she couldn't do it. Instead, they remained in limbo. In limbo between being just friends, just partners, and being together in the true sense of the world. She chastised herself for not making the first move, not being the bigger woman, each and every day. She wondered sometimes, when she saw that glimmer of regret flash in his eyes, if he was mourning the loss of what could have been as she was. Then she would blink and it would be gone, a mere figment of her imagination, so she told herself.

The shrill beeping of the microwave interrupted her reverie; her hot chocolate was ready. As she arose to retrieve it, she wondered absently if he ever thought about her as she thought about him.

Tony DiNozzo struggled to stifle a yawn as he lay awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling. He had a secret vise that when the day was done, he would open his dilapidated journal and write down a brief synopsis of the day's events in it. Not even under penalty of death would he admit to doing so, but he had come to find it quite cathartic. In the line of work he was in, exhibiting emotions could be deadly. It was a release to expel all of the pent-up emotions, and to not be judged for it. Who would have guessed that the great jokester who so often played dumb had the most eloquent prose of them all? Except maybe McWriter who read the dictionary and liked to flaunt it.

Said journal lay splayed across his stomach, the pages fluttering with each rise and fall of his chest. Today's entry was longer than most, because today had been one hell of a day. Through the agape window entered a gentle autumn breeze that rippled the pages of his journal. Finding his pursuit of sleep increasingly futile, he allowed his mind to roam freely, and it immediately settled on its favorite topic- his partner, Probationary Agent Ziva David.

He had been raised devoutly Catholic, his strict grandmother taking him to church every Sunday, taking the time to explain the religion to him. He was so elated that someone thought to pay attention to him that he barely grasped the concept. Nevertheless, he was installed as an altar boy as soon as his age would allow him. The hallowed sanctuary of the altar was the only thing that could keep him silent for any length of time. Unfortunately, upon his grandmother's death a few years later, his attendance had gradually decreased and later disappeared, and his faith dissolving along with it.

In recent years, however, fate had intervened so many times on his behalf that slowly, his beliefs began to be resurrected. Every time he and Ziva were separated, both on their own terms and on orders from higher-ups, they somehow found their way back to each other. In clarification, he traipsed the Somali desert looking to avenge her death, and somehow she had possessed the resolve to persevere. When that black cloth had revealed her, only one thought had been in his mind. His consciousness had screamed, a guttural wail for the whole world to hear, "SHE'S ALIVE!", and the moment's exhilaration was a feat yet to be matched. And she had never looked more beautiful in that moment, when he thought he would never lay eyes on her again. Her face was lined with resignation and weakness, coated with dirt, soot, and sand, but that familiar spark had shot through her dull eyes, and he almost hugged her to ensure that she was real.

When her lips, no longer pink but brown like the dirt under his feet, had formed those words, "I am ready to die," in that familiar accent, he almost burst into tears. The Ziva he had known would have never accepted anything; she fought tooth and nail for her survival, and that was why she was still here, surmounting every obstacle in her path. But obviously in something her was dead and buried in the desert sand, and its absence screamed at him more than its presence would have. His Ziva (the possessive adjective which he had no right to add) had a glint in her eye akin to the silver of her blade and the bullet of her Sig. This Ziva had a heart of stone and scarlet blood on her hands.

One of the first things he had observed (because he was a crack investigator) about Ziva was her effortless confidence. It wasn't narcissism, just a quiet assurance that her abilities would serve her well in whatever she pursued. That first undercover assignment, assuming the identities of Jean-Paul and Sophie Rainier, he had gotten his first glimpse of the playful, coquettish Ziva. She was so different undercover- it was as if she weakened her defenses slightly, was less inhibited. He had never been a follower, but he had for the first time in his life enjoyed being taking along for the ride.

Memories of that night entered his mind, and he basked in the reminiscence. McGee had questioned its authenticity, whether they were _really_ acting, and even though he took pleasure in teasing the Probie occasionally, he still wasn't truly sure. They had been two practically strangers, and putting them in such close proximity consequently sent sparks flying. But there was something special between them, even then. They were like two matching puzzle pieces, perfectly complementary. What one had, the other lacked. They were perfectly in tune to each other's movements in the field, and he taught her colloquialism and sometimes she taught him about Israel, from which she had exiled herself. What they had both enlightened the other to, subconsciously, was the feeling of being in love. It was a conglomeration of soaring highs, crashing falls, and the more common middle ground. It was elucidated to her that love didn't make her weak and pining; on the contrary, it made her strong. He learned that opening himself up to someone wasn't such a bad thing; it didn't always result in irreparable hurt and pain.

That first undercover assignment had been the commencement of the process. He'd never forget how that silky green dress clung to Ziva's ample curves, her raven curls cascading down her back, her full lips curling upward as she teased him. His first thought, well his _second _thought, was that was she was so young. He ran a hand over his own cheeks and sensed the beginning of lines. Her face was smooth and betrayed nothing. Still, she was too young. Too young to have seen what she had seen, too young to have experienced so much pain and hurt and loss. He wanted to take her in his arms and tell her that it would all be okay, that he would take care of her forever. It was such a departure from his façade that she would see right through it, if she hadn't already penetrated the mask. Also, he would likely be risking incapacitating bodily harm. Both of them were far too adept at pretending to be someone else, and consequently, the lines became blurred betwixt acting and reality.

"I'm tired of pretending." His mind found itself occupying an elevator with Ziva.

_ Tony slammed on the button for the floor number incessantly, and just as the doors began to squeak shut, Ziva stealthily slipped in. _

_ "Didn't we get our fill of secret agendas and lying and manipulation during the previous administration?" Tony spat, and he could see Ziva's face drop. He knew she figured he was alluding to Jeanne, the undercover assignment gone horribly wrong. _

_ "Look, I too had hoped things would be different by now." She responded, clearly trying to assuage his anger. And her statement seemed to be one hundred percent the truth. Her only wish, which he shared, was to do her job in to the best of her ability and to not be adversely affected by power struggles pay grades above her. _

_ "I'd like to go up and give Vance a piece of my mind," he hissed as he did a 360, fury burning in his hazel eyes. _

_ Ziva retorted instinctually, "The way you're losing it, I don't think you have enough to spare." He blinked quickly, shaking off the insult. That wasn't as teasing as Ziva's usual taunts. _

_ Tony interrupted her, "I'd like to take his toothpick and shove it up SecNav's cigar." He could imagine the scene all too vividly. Unfortunately, it would probably result in him losing his job. Oh, but it would be worth it. _

_ Almost reading his mind she replied cautiously, "So you have had enough of this job then?" He could sense her trepidation in asking a question which could precipitate his dismissal while he was in such a volatile state._

_ "I like the job. I've had enough of the politics. I wasn't kidding about that part earlier," he said, characteristically speaking his mind. _

_ "If you had ever had some military training, then maybe you would have learned to follow orders," she digressed, placing particular emphasis on the last two words._

_ "What, like you? We were given a direct order not to engage. I recall that you were the first one to throw a punch" he questioned irately. He knew that his next words would be a low blow, but he was out of control._

_ "It was a reflex!" she shouted back at him, her accent getting stronger, indicative of her anger._

_ "Hmm, really? Then what happened after that? Last thing I remember before the lights went out was you kimbo-slicing through a room full of guards. Was that a reflex?" he provoked._

_ "Yes, it was. Gunshot went off. I saw _you_…" she answered vehemently. _

_ A long silence elapsed in which they stared at each other, neither willing to break the stalemate. _

_ "I'm tired of pretending," he said softly._

_ "So am I," she reciprocated._

_ Then he uttered the words he regretted most. He had replayed it so many times in his mind, and he knew what he should've done was pull her in for a kiss. Instead, he withdrew and said cryptically, "It's dinner theatre for an audience of one. When's the curtain going down?"_

_ He stormed out of the elevator, leaving her heartbroken. What she didn't know is his heart was broken too._

He returned to reality once he heard a knock at his door. Who would be coming at this late hour? He glanced quickly at the clock on his nightstand, and the red fluorescent numbers read 4:03. He started to grab a shirt out of his dresser, but then decided that his late-night caller would have to be met with the whole charm of Anthony DiNozzo.

He couldn't have been more surprised when the crack of the door met him with the red-rimmed eyes and unkempt locks of his partner, Ziva David. She broke the awkward silence first, saying "Tony, I have been doing some thinking." He was so thoroughly shocked and confused that he didn't respond. Eventually, he recovered his manners and invited her inside.

**I'm sorry, I always leave one-shots on a cliffhanger (ish). So in your own creative minds, you can concoct your own ending for them. Just make sure it's happy and results in a lot of Tiva babies. **

**Please review, and thanks for reading!**


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